An Upright Man
by thoroughlymodernJulie
Summary: The psalmist wrote that the steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, but Georg von Trapp has never been a good man. A moral one, but never good, and no follower of God. Certainly, everything that could have made him good, had been stripped away already. And then, he met her.
1. Bad Form

March 1914

* * *

War was no proverbial pain in the ass. It was literal, and Georg von Trapp relished it. If war and service could be his bedfellow, it would be, and it would be the best time of his life, he was sure. It was perverse and twisted, but he was a man with such a brain that navigating enemy waters was a thrill to him, and strategizing best for success in battle, whether for victory or merely for thwarting the enemy, was a puzzle that pleased his cerebral mind beyond all else.

It was hard to say what he preferred more: serving as corvette lieutenant on his assigned warship or carousing the town with his fellow shipmates while docked for a night filled with alcohol, debauchery, and merriment aplenty. And while there was nothing like the softness of a willing woman, still there was nothing in the world that could rival the joy he felt at breathing in salty sea air and stepping off land at last to be surrounded by nothing but sea—around, below, above. For as far as the eye could see. For many, it was claustrophobic. To Georg, it was freedom.

"What do you say we crash the local pub before we head back to Pola?"

Georg was startled slightly by a rough hand clapping him on the shoulder, and he turned to glare up at the sailor who had interrupted his musings. Maximilian Detweiler. Of course. The man was a weasel at best and a complete fraud at worst, but somehow, though he had at least eight years on Georg and should have reached commissioned rank by now, certainly beyond him, he had succeeded at completing the mandatory training and at least held his post.

Georg did so despise mediocrity.

"Well?"

He grunted in response, wishing he could simply turn away from the older man and go back to his thoughts. Max wasn't bad company for laugh, but Georg was not after a laugh. He was anxious to return to the water, and it would be prudent to check over the equipment one more time. He said as much, and got to his feet, brushing off his knees and the seat of his pants.

"Always with a thundercloud over your head, you are," Max observed. "Uptight. Unless you're drunk. Then, you're the best fun in the world. It's bad form."

Gritting his teeth, Georg turned toward the docks and ignored the insubordinate comments, knowing full well by now that Max did not give a damn that his mouth and his actions were what kept him where he was. Bad form, indeed. Something roiled in his stomach which he could only describe as ironic glee. The only thing that kept Detweiler in _anyone's_ good graces.

No one could call Georg von Trapp a good man. He was a wretch, and he knew it. But at least he had one thing going for him: he was unwavering in his principles. Perhaps it was a miracle that such a man as he had any at all, but surely there was such a thing as lawful evil. When people did not play by the rules is where every problem began, whether for good or for ill.

Boarding the warship, Georg was met by his commanding officer, corvette captain Ludwig von Höhnel, who was sitting on the deck cleaning a pile of rifles and pistols. Here was a man who would go far. Not much older than Detweiler, he had spent years exploring the African continent on behalf of the empire, and had only left to serve aboard this warship for the good of the empire. Before the war was out, he would surely be made admiral.

"I shouldn't have let you all run off, ensign," he said gruffly as Georg saluted him and then sat down and picked up a rag and grease with which to clean his own rifle. "But it seemed a shame not to allow it. We'll be at sea for a long haul, this time."

"Sir?" Georg said tentatively, eyes focused on the rod he was now ramming down the barrel of his rifle, but nevertheless offering his deferential attention.

"Things aren't looking well, von Trapp, and that's the plain truth. But play your cards right, and you'll come out of this blasted travesty of a war better than most could hope. The navy suits you, and you suit it."

"Yes, sir."

It was a high compliment, but a worn one. It was true that Georg had risen quickly to a commissioned position and that his intention to make a career out of his naval service was going better than even he had hoped, but surely anything was attainable with enough dedication. With nothing else to divert him, he had all the dedication life had to offer.

His parents were dead, and he had no attachment to any extended family. They were all aristocratic bores, and Georg hated the lot of them. He had stormed off to enlist in the naval academy nearly six years ago after an altercation with his uncle, in which it was said to him that pursuing a naval career was unbecoming of a man of money, and it was forbidden. His father would not have approved.

"Blast my father!" he had shouted at his uncle, a fat old man who was red in the face with rage and far too drunk to try to win any arguments with his nephew.

Life as a society rat was a bleak prospect for a boy who had always wanted nothing more than to see the world. He played every sport hard, throwing his all into everything from football to cricket. He rode horses well, and would never dismount until his legs were quaking from the strain of controlling a newly-broken colt or filly. He had studied diligently at the naval academy, finishing at the top of his class. When not dressed in uniform, he donned billowing shirts and snug knickers, swam often, and always smelled of sweat and sea salt.

It was a waste of such a talented mind, his aunt insisted, and his grandmother, too. But truly, what was talent when there was passion? It played out in his physicality, in his affairs, in his drunkenness. Life was to be lived, not observed! And on that score, he had enough of the judgment and expectations, so strong and so high, and simply left. Ran that night the several kilometers to the train station and enrolled immediately at the naval academy, paying the full tuition for his entire stay outright, with nothing but the clothing on his back.

Once graduated and sent on his two-year training voyages, Georg wrote a terse letter home to his relatives, if only to inform them that he was well and thriving, and that they could send any correspondence to the naval base in Pola. Whether it was weeks or months or a year, he would receive it eventually.

A reply had come swiftly, but to Georg's delight, every intention had been thwarted by the longevity of the mission he had embarked upon after posting that letter. This fact alone did not preclude him from spiraling into a sour mood, however, for the contents of the letter all but placed a permanent scowl upon his face.

 _June 1912  
_ _Zara, Kingdom of Dalmatia  
_ _Estate von Trapp_

 _Georg:_

 _Were your father still alive, he would most certainly disown you for the cowardly behaviour you have exhibited in shirking your duties. Out of respect for him, however, I will refrain from so doing and instead offer you an ultimatum: come home and marry as we have discussed many times, or continue on your reckless path with life in the navy and find yourself cut off from your inheritance._

 _I will be sending an escort with this letter, and he is under instruction to bring you home upon delivering it. This can be settled reasonably, I think, and you will take your place as head of the family. I am willing to allow you a great deal of freedom, and I will indubitably remain as executor of your father's estate until your first son is born, as per his wishes._

 _It is our hope that this letter finds you well. Your grandparents send their prayers._

 _Onkel_

"Send their prayers," Georg snorted loudly, and then before he knew it, the letter had found its way to the burning grate of a tavern furnace and he was knocking back shot upon shot of whiskey, an amount which the barman later remarked should have killed a horse.

The escort was long gone by that time, for it had been months between the letter's delivery and Georg's return. The haughtiness and entitlement demonstrated by this missive only served to fuel further bitterness and a flaming, intense hatred for the life that he had the severe misfortune to be born into.

It didn't stop him wondering how long the escort had been made to wait for his return, and it gave Georg every bit of perverse pleasure to imagine the family fortune being wasted on such idiocy. For all the talk and bluster of rules, tradition, and respect, there was not even a shred of respect for the office of the military. Oh, his family most certainly knew how to cozy up to the highest of the political elite, and had their dalliances with the most high-ranking officers of the empire's armed forces. But behind closed doors, when the suits and dresses were stripped, the makeup gone, and the alcohol soaking their vapid brains, the disdain came out in full force, and it never did abate. The only positive potential in any of it was for which officers had a daughter of marriageable age with enough money to grow the small, but respectable von Trapp fortune.

He would rather be dirt poor and living a twisted dream than dressed to the nines and courting wealth. At least _this_ life of order and discipline served a higher purpose.

It made him love the service life all the more. Hardheaded, stubborn, and a creature of habit, Georg was most usually inclined to cling fiercely to what was least approved by his sordid excuse for a family, and he was happy here. Blissfully, unexplainably happy. In many ways he would dare say he had found the love of his life.

It was a love and a life that allowed him to do what he pleased without qualm, and whether that was manhandle a crew of rowdy sailors or bed a pretty girl or greet the dawn with alcohol on his breath and daring a hangover to inhibit him, so be it. There was nothing good in him. If there was good in him, he would do right by the virgin he had spoiled his first week in the port city of Trieste and marry her, and a better man still would have returned home to do his duty to his family. A righteous man would never have left at all, and would instead marry the woman intended for him and begin a new legacy for the nobility of the empire.

But his conscience simply would not allow it.

His uncle was a fool of the highest order, and would never know what it was to him to favour this life over aristocracy. Georg had been just four years old when his father died, and it had come after a successful career in the Austro-Hungarian Imperial and Royal Navy which earned him a rank that Georg hoped one day to attain, and even move beyond.

He had never been too impressed by the notion his family touted, that his father cared more for preserving the nobility bestowed upon the family by the prestigious _Ritter_ title given by the emperor.

It was an honor, to be sure, but it was only truly that. An honor.

One he did not feel he deserved. He had not done anything to earn it, and his name by itself bore no noble carriage. It was only on his father's legacy that he stood as a part of this family, and he despised this. It was all fabricated by his uncle and grandparents, and what little his mother had told him once upon a time was the stuff of storybooks.

He liked his life much better the way he'd carved it. No one and nothing to disappoint but himself. And as it happened, he pleased himself quite well.


	2. Good Form

"Not like that! No, you idiot, his mouth is not a jackhammer!"

Cursing under his breath in fluent Croatian, Georg quickly climbed the fence from which he'd been watching one of his sailors try to ride, jumping down from the top railing and landing heavily in the dirt. This had been a stupid idea. Funny, at first, but stupid.

"The bet's off, Cupać," Georg spat. "Get off that horse. If you can't listen to simple instructions, this is finished."

"We all can't be perfect like you, oh holy one," the man said sourly, relinquishing his death grip on the reins and dismounting so sloppily that the horse he was on started rearing from the discomfort.

"Shut up, Petar," one of the other sailors called from the far side of the arena. "He'll have you packing if you talk like that!"

Reins in his hands, Georg turned toward the group of sailors that had come to watch this interaction and roared at them to quiet themselves or they would _all_ be sent packing, using some choice Croatian and Hungarian terms to silence them.

"Swine," he muttered under his breath, turning back to the horse and lowering the stirrup on the colt's left side. Patting his flank reassuringly, he murmured to the young horse until he stopped stepping about nervously and his ears came forward. He swished his tail to swat at the flies buzzing around his legs and turned to blink at the man beside him, as if asking what was next on the agenda.

"You're a curious one," Georg said approvingly. "I like that." And then, before the colt had a chance to protest, he had jammed his toes into the stirrup and propelled himself off the ground, swinging his leg over the saddle in one smooth motion. The horse gave a small start, but obeyed when Georg squeezed his sides and clucked for him to begin walking. Careful not to encourage the colt to take off running, Georg reached down for his stirrup crossed it over the front of the saddle, doing the same for the right side.

He thought he heard faint jeers of "show-off!" from the growing crowd, but other men besides his own had joined, and he didn't know to whom rebuke was due. Shifting about slightly until he was comfortably centered in his seat, Georg nudged the horse into a trot and rode over to the spectacle.

"Watch this," Georg shouted, taking the reins in one hand and looping them through the saddle handle, knotting them in place. It was unusual to find the little bit of leather attached to a saddle meant for skilled riders, but maybe the stable boys had guessed it might be useful for the idiotic crewmen who had asked for the mount in the first place. At any rate, it would serve Georg's purpose nicely.

Checking that the colt had enough room to have his head without feeling freed, Georg turned his attention back to the crowd, singling out Cupać, who had scrambled to the other side of the fence when it was clear that the ensign was mounting, and spoke directly to him. "Reins are merely a tool," he said levelly. "Yanking on them is only going to piss him off, and then because it's too painful, he'll grab the bit between his teeth and take off running." Here, Georg paused, observing the crowd before making eye contact again with the man in front of him. "As much as I would love to see that, I don't have the time nor inclination to find a new chief steward."

The crowd roared with laughter at this comment, now jeering at Cupać, who was scowling fiercely.

"I understand," Georg said loudly, "that my men have issued a challenge to each other for fun, to see how long it would take to bring a riled horse back under control without any cracked skulls."

He placed his hands above the knotted reins and rested them along the colt's neck, just beyond his withers, twisting a fistful of silken mane between his fingers.

"Now, I suppose that taking a colt out would be a good way to go about that- green, fresh, hasn't had submission beat into him yet. But, you see, provoking him… now, that breeds nasty habits. What we want is _not_ nasty habits. They're nearly impossible to break once perpetuated, and it is far easier to to simply shoot the horse and start fresh with a yearling."

Many of the men were looking up at Georg with skepticism, but far more had expressions of bald shock on their faces.

"Oh, yes," Georg said smoothly. "It takes months or years of constant work to tame the worst of habits in a horse, and it's not often fully-corrected. Demand good form from the start and good form you will have."

Squeezing the colt's sides, Georg sent him into a trot, which was choppy and uneven to start, but once the tensed horse reached out tentatively, feeling for the bit, and realized that it was not going to cause him any discomfort, he stretched his neck out and lengthened his stride, moving gracefully, and transitioned with ease into a canter when it was asked of him. All the while, the stirrups remained crossed over the front of the saddle, and his rider's hands were buried in his mane, reins secured but untouched.

Whoops and hollers started once the Austrian ensign took control of his horse's direction and began to steer him in figure-eight patterns of various sizes.

"Look at that, how do you suppose he's doing it?"

"Sorcery, for sure, that man's black as they come."

"Idiot, he's obviously tweaking the reins or digging in his heels!"

But those who had not taken their eyes off Georg von Trapp saw well for themselves that his hands remained firmly planted on the colt's glistening neck, and that his heels were far away from the great black colt's belly. To watch this man ride, like this especially, was something out of a dream. He rode straight and tall, working with his mount as though they were one being, and that he was wearing freshly polished boots with breeches and a loose muslin shirt only added to the score that this was a man of conviction, authority, and power.

Georg realized only after he dropped the stirrups and pushed his feet into them, heels jammed down and toes upward, that the crowd had gone completely silent while watching him ride. Releasing the reins from their slipknot around the saddle handle, he picked them up and steered his mount with deliberateness back to the crowd. The horse obeyed beautifully, and did not once balk at the gentle, yet purposeful use of the bit in his mouth.

Towering above the men gathered before him, Georg said, "The reins and heels are for precision only. The real discipline comes from the seat and the legs. Don't forget it."

Shooting Cupać a final look of disdain, Georg took his mount to the far end of the arena to return him to his stall. Von Höhner was standing at the gate, waiting to meet him. He opened it and Georg rode through, dismounting as the gate snapped shut behind them.

"That was very nicely done, ensign," the corvette captain said approvingly as Georg saluted him. "I never thought I'd see the day when a sailor schooling a horse would be the thing to convince me."

"Convince you of what, sir?" Georg asked, pulling the reins over the colt's head and going around to loosen the girth.

"That you're ready to head your own warship. How does Lieutenant von Trapp sound?"

Hiding his surprise, Georg said, "It would be my honor. Thank you, sir."

The commanding officer shook his head. "The time for training is up. It's time to send you out to do some great things, von Trapp. I know that, technically, you have a few months left of training, but there is a war on, and we need all the skill we can get out on the water. It would be unwise to keep your talent aboard my ship."

"When will this take place, sir?"

"We'll get the affairs in order before we dock at Fiume next month. With any luck, you'll be arriving there a newly-minted lieutenant on the prowl for a crew. Your instinct is good, von Trapp. You're a natural in the water. And as for managing men, well," he gestured to the gaping crowd of sailors that had not yet dispersed, "you will do that well also." Pausing, the corvette captain assessed the young man in front of him, and then added, "Truthfully, you should have skipped rank when you came to me, as you have the education for it, but I wanted to try you on for size. You're only twenty, and hadn't been out for anything taxing. You're ready, though."

Shading his eyes with one hand, Georg looked up over the horizon toward the sea, and nodded. It was now or never.

* * *

"Come on, cheer up!" Max said loudly, sloshing a stein of beer in front of Georg. "You're skipping rank, you'll be lieutenant! Girls like that better than ensign, you know?"

 _Linienschiffsleutnant_ was certainly a step up, and Georg was most pleased by it, but the spectacle this afternoon had caused something heavy to settle over his shoulders, and he couldn't quite figure out what it was. There had been a man in the crowd watching him with whom he had locked eyes, and it had made his breath catch. In the interest of the point he was making, he did not let it visibly rattle him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that appearances weren't what they seemed. It was not a good thing, to not be able to read a stranger among a crowd.

A voice behind him, gruff but not entirely masculine, said, "Ensign, could I have a word? Or, should I say… lieutenant, sir?"

Georg whipped around, glaring at the intruder. "It is rude to eavesdrop," he said savagely. But looking this deckhand up and down, Georg realized it was not one of his men, and grunted with annoyance before turning back to Max.

"I think you'll want to hear me out."

Georg froze, shocked to hear his native German coming from the man, fluent and melodious, and… not male. He looked up at Max, who was wearing an expression of equal shock, and then listened hard to the noise surrounding them, to make sure he hadn't misheard. The speech around him was a hodgepodge of Croatian, Hungarian, Italian, and Polish. He and Max themselves had been conversing in Croatian. What in hell's name…

"Oh, come now, lieutenant, you haven't heard of a lady sailor ever?"

Georg jerked around. The woman, now confirmed, had disappeared from behind and had planted herself firmly next to the table at which the two men were sitting. She placed a coin on the table and called for more lager, then sized up the two of them with hands on her hips.

"I think," she said sweetly to Max, "that you may want to make yourself scarce."

Looking to Georg for confirmation, Max nodded at the raised eyebrows, then removed himself, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he walked past.

"I'll not waste time," the girl said, sliding into Max's vacated seat. She was speaking now in rapid Hungarian. "I want passage on your ship."

Georg sat back, observing this woman in her baggy, striped shirt, leather overcoat, worn breeches, and boots. She had a cap jammed on her head that made it difficult to see her eyes.

"Who are you?"

She pushed back her cap, pulling it off her forehead. "Call me Lara."

Georg blinked. "You're the sailor from the arena, today."

She grinned. "I was wondering if you had noticed me, lost in the jumble of all those men."

But he was scowling. "What's a woman doing out here, trying to get aboard a ship?"

"It's my dream to sail," she said urgently. "I want to do it more than anything."

"I'm sorry to point out the obvious, but a warship is a poor choice, unless you have a specific death wish. Why not try to join an expedition?"

Lara's gaze hardened. "Don't be a dolt, lieutenant. With the war, nobody will fund a new expedition, let alone the emperor. And precious few will let a woman go along, not even to cook."

Georg was sizing this woman up, trying to find the best way to have his hands washed of her.

"I don't have a ship, and if I did, I wouldn't take you," he said finally, hoping the bluntness would put her off.

"I'm good for a shag," she said with a casualness that sounded… inviting. Georg's eyes widened at this, betraying him, and she laughed mirthlessly. "I'll cut you a deal. If it's not the best you've had in your life, you can toss me into the sea and it'll be as if this never happened. If it's otherwise, you'll introduce me to Captain von Höhner in the morning."

"What makes you so sure I'm inclined to agree?"

"Because," she whispered silkily, "I've heard you love a willing woman, and what's more, you'll be away long enough once leaving the docks that you'll be so terribly parched, and wouldn't you rather do this with an active participant who shares a similar passion than with an overworked, underpaid whore?"

She wasn't wrong.

He reached out to shake her hand. "Deal."


	3. A Dangerous Prospect

Georg watched Lara through narrowed eyes, wondering where this would lead. Her handshake was strong, matching his. She drank her alcohol gamely. Everyone she had come in contact with thus far mistook her for a man. She spoke multiple languages with astonishing fluency, and obviously understood more. He had assumed she was also Austrian from the quality of her German, but it was the rapid, low-toned Hungarian pouring out of her mouth now that made him peg her for that instead. There was no measured care with her words, here, just intimate knowing.

It made a shiver run down his spine. What had he agreed to?

Draining her stein, Lara sighed appreciatively, wiping her upper lip clean with the back of her hand. "That's more like it," she said. "It is always better to engage in immorality with good lager on tap."

Georg left his untouched, arms still folded across his chest, and continued to gaze at this creature that would be his bedfellow for the night. He couldn't make out much, in this garb, but she had a pretty face. Angular, with wide, brown eyes. Normally, he thought brown eyes to be fairly unremarkable, but hers… hers were almost red, as far as he could make out in the low lighting. It was mesmerizing. She had dark, thick lashes, and eyebrows to match. Her complexion was like cream, and her mouth… oh, her mouth looked so inviting. He was already imagining what it would be to kiss her plump lips until they were swollen and chafed… and they would be glorious elsewhere.

Feeling the stirrings of desire beginning to take hold, Georg shook himself and stopped this train of thought. _She_ was the one with a point to prove, and though it would be to his benefit to set the bar higher, he had an acute sense that this girl was prepared and well able to go far beyond anything a skilled madam or cheap whore could offer. She was right. He wanted a girl with passion, now and then. He wasn't after love—that was folly. In seafaring life, to look for love was to ask for trouble. His lover _was_ the sea. But oh, he could take a mistress. And the mistress would be someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain. It was nice to greet sex with the promise of going to bed with an equal.

"Come on, Lieutenant, we should get back to the cabin."

Georg opened his mouth to protest, explaining that he never took a woman back to the ship, and that he had a hotel room upstairs above the pub, but she gave him a withering glare.

"I prefer to shag in a clean environment, ensign," she said viciously. "I take you to be one who keeps his space orderly. And furthermore, no one will question my coming with you. For all intents and purposes, I am a man. Or have you already forgotten?" She smiled slyly. "That is good. It will make my job _much_ easier."

"I suppose I could say we're going to play a quiet game of cards," Georg muttered. "Lord knows Max invites himself enough."

"No company tonight," she said.

"If anyone asks," Georg clarified.

"They won't," Lara said confidently. "We're going to slip away unnoticed. It's a good thing you haven't made this promotion business public, or it would be quite difficult."

"I haven't got it, yet," Georg said. "No point until then."

"Stop being an uptight ass," Lara said derisively. "I was watching you with your commanding officer after that little show of horsemanship and dominance, and he seemed very pleased. More pleased than a naval officer would be over his ensign's horseback riding skills." She paused, reaching across the table to take one of Georg's hands, which at long last, he had put down on the table. "You know what I think?" she said conspiratorially. "I think that he saw that display for what it was and decided it was time to send you out to sea with your own little ship."

Georg jerked away from her grasp, refusing to affirm her opinion, and downed half of his lager in one gulp. Her touch was electrifying. Over banal conversation, she was seducing him. It was madness.

A wide smile broke out over Lara's face as she observed his reaction, and without so much as a by-your-leave, she shoved herself away from the table and stood, saying in loud Croatian, "Alright, Ensign von Trapp, I'll take you up on your wager."

"What are you doing?" Georg hissed, grabbing her by the wrist and wrenching her down. He fished around in his pockets, pulling out several coins, and placed them on the table.

"Making our exit," she replied simply. But mirth was dancing in her eyes already, and as he watched her rub her wrist where moments before he had been touching her, Georg knew he had lost the bet already. She was beyond clever. She was the devil incarnate.

She fell in step behind him after exiting the tavern, and Georg discovered that she had chosen this deferential walk not for charade only, but to whisper wicked things to him, to have it dance on the wind and caress him, to make him hard and mindless, and it was working.

"Do you know how wet it made me, to watch you schooling that colt? I rode him once, and it was a nightmare. You rode him and he moved like honey, and I can just imagine… sea salt, horse sweat, boot polish, your delicious masculine scent… you see, don't you, how this proposition was no difficult one? You're so strong, you stand so tall, your straining muscles under those breeches are a dream…"

Slyly, she slipped ahead of him just before boarding the warship, tossing him a puckish smile for good measure, and whispered, "For vanity's sake, you know."

If she wasn't so damn _right_ , Georg would have made a biting comment about making assumptions before their due course, but there _was_ no assumption to make. Every caress was an invitation, and every breath on his neck, a love song. She had walked in step behind him, whispering enticing things, impossible things, things a woman so young and so slight should never know about a man. He guessed she was slight and devious, anyway, for there had to be a grand prize underneath that getup for her wager to be anything substantial, and for her to risk drowning. It could all be bluster, and for all he knew she might just tie him up in his room and storm the ship, holding it hostage until she got her wish, but it was a reckless chance he was happy to take. The only truth he knew to be evident was that this Lara knew something about seduction better than he himself did: great sex does not begin in bed. It begins _well_ in advance.

Almost twelve hours in advance, it seemed.

"Now," she murmured low, stepping aboard the deck and glancing around. "Which way…?" She turned, looking up at her wager, waiting for directions.

Mutely, Georg pointed toward the ladder near the stern of the warship that led to his private quarters.

"Nothing too terribly grand," Lara observed upon entering. She nodded satisfactorily. "That will change, though. With time. This will do, for now!"

Georg barely had a chance to lock his door behind him and protest at her indication that she would win the wager, stick around, _and_ continue to find herself in his sleeping quarters, for she was suddenly on him like a panther on the prowl. It knocked the breath out of him.

Her lips were on his, every bit as soft and inviting as he had imagined, and she was clawing at his shirt, attempting to pull it over his head. He helped her, tossing it to the ground in a heap as she in turn moved to undo his belt and push the riding breeches from his hips.

He groaned almost immediately, for her hand was now stroking him, and the pleasure of the pressure and movement was almost too much to bear. Grunting and peering at this girl through hazy eyes, he realized that she was undoing her own pants with her free hand, and because they were so large on her, they fell away as soon as she released her grasp.

They were kicked away, and wordlessly, she crushed herself up against him, her cap knocked askew and her shoulder-length black hair tumbling from its binds. Her hands were moving over his back, her mouth sucking at his lips, her tongue dancing with his…

"Argh!" he cried when she suddenly broke the kiss and bit down on his bare shoulder with a dark laugh.

Staggering to his bed, he collapsed with her on top of him, and was about to choke out words affirming that she had bested him already, but she bent over him and placed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"The show isn't over, yet, ensign," she whispered. "Far from it." She shifted about a bit, adjusting herself. "Reminds me a bit of you finding your seating after mounting that colt," she whispered, throat humming with laughter and promise.

"Leave it to a wayward woman to make horse riding a dirty business," he croaked.

"Well, you see, I'm not much of a rider, Ensign von Trapp," she explained. "And to us outsiders, I'm afraid the horseman's way of life is one, long, dirty joke. Unless a horse is specified, many a horrified person might take the discussion to otherwise be very uncouth."

She was unbuttoning her shirt now, moving down her chest with deliberate slowness, her eyes locked with his.

"I wondered if you knew," she said. "When your eyes found mine today. It was only a brief second, a fleeting moment, and you turned so quickly to that idiot Cupać that I thought I had imagined it. I told myself I must have, though you seem to have an excellent instinct for people. Even now, you regard me with wariness."

Final button undone, she opened her shirt and tossed it to the floor behind her, revealing what had helped make her charade so successful: her chest was bound. Continuing the tease, she unwrapped the binding slowly, ever so slowly, smirking as she watched her quarry's eyes began to clear as his focus sharpened. She wriggled knowingly, chuckling when she felt him react against her. "You're not one for much prelude, are you?" She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "You are right to be wary."

But caution was long gone, and recklessness was Georg's lifeblood. She was doing such wicked things to his body, and she was uncovering her breasts. He couldn't help the moan of longing that slipped from his mouth when she finally finished her task, and she looked quite pleased with herself at his reaction.

"Yes, isn't it a shame that I have to hide these? They look wonderful in a dress with a low neckline!"

And just like that, Georg's mind was filled not only with the dark reality of Lara, the rogue runaway, on top of him and about to shag him without shame, but of the dark prospect of Lara the woman. She must be absolutely deadly. She must.

"Who are you..?" he wondered, reaching for her ample breasts, longing to bury his face in them and lick every inch of her he could find. To bring this black and wanton creature to the heights of sinful, lust-filled pleasure.

"Your equal," she purred, leaning down for another languid kiss, her body pliable and responsive to his growing arousal. "And your weakness. You do so love a twisted passion."

Her touch was wicked. If he was a wretch, then she was wicked.

* * *

Georg woke the following morning to find Lara standing above him, buttoning her shirt and tucking it into her pants.

"Best get up, don't want the crew to get suspicious," she said.

Rubbing his eyes, Georg groaned as he rolled over and peered at his bedside clock. He'd only slept a few hours, and the day promised to be a long one. Sitting up, he surveyed his newest lover, who now held her cap between her teeth and was busy gathering her hair into a high bun. Gruffly, he gestured, "Truly, you can't intend to carry on with the charade?"

Lara looked at him with a strange expression. "I rather hoped your brains would match your extraordinarily good looks, ensign, but now I wonder if you are an idiot."

"It wouldn't do to lie to von Höhner," Georg said irritably. "I respect him too well for that."

A wide grin broke out over Lara's face at this comment. "So, you are a man of your word!"

"Always," he grunted, pulling away the covers and swinging his legs out of bed, preparing to stumble his way to the tiny wash room in his quarters. He pointedly ignored Lara's smirk as she observed his naked body openly and without shame.

She was sitting on the bed when he returned washed, freshly shaven, and dressed in clean clothes.

Picking up his breeches from the night before and removing the belt, Georg looked over to her, breaking the silence as he pushed it through the belt loops of his pants. "My commanding officer will be pleased to meet you as a man, since he will soon be losing me, and perhaps a few others who may decide to join me. However, as a woman… I extend no surety on that count. And I will not lie to him."

Lara nodded. "I understand, ensign."

Doing up the buckle and folding yesterday's clothes, he deposited them into a neat pile on his bed and sighed. Seeing her like this was disconcerting. Deferential, respectful, quiet… quite the contrast from last night. He was inclined to think it was purposeful… and yet, as he observed her, it was genuine. How curious.

"I'll take you to breakfast at the pub," Georg said grudgingly. "They put out a good spread and strong coffee."

Watching Lara eat was like watching a starved child gorge himself at a Christmas feast, and it prompted Georg to ask without thinking if she always ate like this. She glared up at him briefly and then snapped back, "Are you always so rude?"

Scowling, he drained his coffee mug and placed some crumpled bills on the table to pay for the food. He waited until she was finished with her meal and then shoved away from the table, eager to get the awkward meeting with his commanding officer off his plate and this girl gone for good. He had far too much to manage without her tagging along behind.

Fate was not on his side.

Captain von Höhner simply blinked when Lara removed her cap and began to roar with laughter. Whether he was still drunk from the night before, Georg could not tell. Shifting restlessly from foot to foot, he peered beyond the corvette captain's shaking shoulders and the tears he was dashing from his eyes, gauging the time of the morning by the faint glow of the sun just beginning to break the dawn. It would be implausible, but possible… or a plausible diversion. Sighing, Georg clasped his hands behind him and stole a glance at Lara out of the corner of his eye, who was standing in front of him, but off to his left.

If nothing else, it was to Georg's satisfaction that she was wearing an expression wrought of nothing but cold stone. He smirked, pleased. This girl could not just waltz into his life and take what she wanted. He had put himself on a slippery slope. It couldn't happen again, he knew.

"Let me tell you," von Höhner wheezed, gesturing at Lara, "what exactly your place would be, here."

She raised an expectant eyebrow. "Sir?"

"You'd be the resident whore," he said bluntly, "but worse, because none of my men would have the grace to pay you for your troubles. And while I insist on a clean ship, I'm sure due diligence to, eh, _carnal_ matters falls away from time to time. You'd be wildly unsafe, here, girl."

"Your ensign here bought me breakfast," Lara said in a low voice, lip curling as she glanced briefly behind her at Georg. "In fact, he has been nothing but hospitable, if not a bit rude and prone to quick judgments. And anyway, I can look after myself."

"Only complete novices would say such a thing while standing aboard a warship, Fräulein," von Höhner said with considerably less good humor. Turning to Georg, he frowned and said, "Breakfast and hospitality, with a lick of rudeness, and preceded by, dare I say… impulsivity?"

Understanding von Höhner's meaning, Georg remained silent but held his gaze with the older man. Good judgment was for war and sea and men and horses, not sexual dalliances; he would not apologize for it. It was punishment enough to have had to stand here and introduce Lara as promised, realizing he did not even know her surname, and revealing that she was also female.

"Must be some good stuff underneath all the scruffiness," von Höhner commented.

Blood boiling and his heart pounding in his ears, Georg gritted his teeth and bit back any reply. Lara, he noticed, had shifted and the back of her neck was turning a faint shade of pink. _Good_ , he thought savagely. _The idiot deserves it._ For all her shamelessness the night before, for her stoicism and perseverance standing here now… at least she had the grace to blush.

Or so he thought. Because, as it turned out, the next sound to greet his ears was barking laughter. _Her_ laughter. Lara was not embarrassed, not in the slightest. She was aroused and excited and… playing her game.

"Surely a ship's captain can make some allowances to keep himself entertained and happy," she purred smoothly. "After all, you will have some space before very long…"

"I concede on that point," von Höhner nodded, "but I need men who can muscle their way around a ship deck, load the armaments, clean weapons, haul it all, run 'er… not a pretty lady masquerading as a man who has some very unclear intentions. Seems rather a dangerous prospect."

"I'm no lady," Lara parried. "But give me the voyage to—where is it you're going next? Fiume?"

Georg diverted his gaze to his boots at the furious expression on his commander's face.

"—and that should be enough time to prove my worth."

Observing Lara now with mirthless interest, von Höhner said to Georg, "Ensign, put her with the coal reserves. She'll work the stokehold. I have neither room nor use for her, but perhaps this will be a good lesson."

"Yes sir," Georg breathed, saluting.

"Welcome aboard the SMS _Habsburg_ , sailor," von Höhner said to the woman before him.


	4. Unsolicited Advice

"Come with me, ensign," von Höhner said sharply, gesturing to Georg. To Lara, he said carelessly, "If you know your way about a ship as you say, you should be able to find your quarters well enough. I think compartment 257 has a vacant bunk."

Georg was aware that von Höhner didn't _think_ anything. He knew perfectly well how many free beds there were on his ship, which compartments they were in, and who was occupying them. As they were indeed up to full capacity with a full crew and officers, there were currently only three mattresses on the whole ship that were empty, and that included one in the captain's own private quarters. Georg was surprised he did not make the girl sleep on the floor like some of the crew who worked the stokehold.

"Got to maintain a smidgen of respect around here for a woman," von Höhner said as he and the ensign walked toward his study. "Even if it's mostly a laugh. Maybe it will rattle her enough to leave before repairs are finished and we set sail. What woman wants to sleep on a bed covered in coal dust and sweat, eh?"

Georg maintained his silence, following his commanding officer's lead and knowing that he was in hot water. He shut the study door behind him while von Höhner took his seat, and after taking a deep and steadying breath, he turned around to face the reprimand that was surely about to pour forth.

Von Höhner leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chin, observing the young man in front of him with a steady gaze. Finally, he said in a dangerously low voice, "What in the blazes do you think you're doing, von Trapp? Bringing a strange woman aboard ship like that? I don't care who or what you entertain in your off hours, but it sets a terrible precedent, and now she's _my_ problem, too."

"She made a wager with me," Georg muttered. "I make no excuses for the difficult position I've put you in. But I was fascinated, and she was fascinating."

"She could have three heads, for all I care!" von Höhner thundered. "She should not be on this ship!"

"Sir," Georg said tentatively, "then…"

"You would do better to rethink that line of thought immediately, von Trapp," the man said, pointing an accusatory finger. "As my guess is you lost your end of the wager, and I was somehow implicated in the consequences of such. What was it, that display of horsemanship yesterday, a poker tournament, a chess match, a drinking challenge…?"

Swallowing, Georg knew it would be better for him if he lied and pinned Lara's presence on an ill-advised alcohol binge, as it was closest to the truth, but he simply shook his head. "No, sir."

"Well, now you've got me all agog," von Höhner sneered sarcastically. "You strike me as the kind who knows how to proposition a woman without bringing her aboard ship. And without telling her the details of our movements!"

Wincing, Georg clarified, "I told her nothing. I never do. She overheard me speaking with Detweiler. She heard I'm up for promotion, and so _she_ propositioned _me_ , sir."

"This becomes more preposterous by the moment," von Höhner said in a low, growling voice. "Don't you speak five languages, man? And Detweiler something similar?"

"Sir, she understands—and speaks!—all three of our most oft-used…"

"Well, then, you better brush up on your Italian, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep your eye on her, too. I do not find her trustworthy. But, then again, not even a day after what was meant to be a _private_ conversation, I'm not so sure I trust you, either. Good judgment, von Trapp, you need to have it off ship as much as on. I've never said a word against your prolific debauchery or your drinking because you never let it interfere with what happens when we're on the seas, and I remember what great fun it was when I was young. But you've made your bed, and you're going to be made to sleep in it, even if that means some risks and inconveniences to me along the way."

"I understand, sir."

Waving a dismissive hand, von Höhner said, "You may go."

Georg's hand was on the door handle when his commanding officer stopped him with a query: "Was it worth it?"

He turned. "In that she upheld her end of the wager, yes, sir, it was."

Von Höhner nodded. "Good. Although I would have preferred you throwing this Lara overboard the moment she set foot on my ship, you are learning that every choice has consequences not directly affecting you. This is already a successful exercise, one you set up yourself! I am a lucky man. You save me a lot of effort and trouble, you know? You walk into it yourself, even though you have the brains to tell you not to."

"Yes, sir," Georg muttered, slipping out the door and stomping off to his rooms. He still felt there was nothing for which he needed to apologize. A man could enjoy himself, after all. Von Höhner had even acknowledged as much! Lara would most certainly be gone once they had docked in Fiume. Trieste, if she proved particularly persistent. But this would not last. He would see to that.

"Psst," came a sound just as Georg was passing the captain's extensive library.

Jerking about, he found Lara hiding in the shadows of the open doors, well-concealed.

"What do you want?" he spat.

"I thought you might be in need of some consolation after such a degrading dressing-down," she said sweetly. Then, smirking, she said, "Otherwise I won't see you again for a while, and I'll be covered in coal dust, sweat, and what you hope is defeat when I do. Tell me, could you escort me to the stokehold?"

"You'll be cleaning the cabins on the third level until we leave port," Georg said, grudgingly beckoning for her to follow him. "No use in wasting coal if we're not going anywhere."

"Oooh, how demeaning," she laughed.

"Lara," Georg said sharply, using her name for the first time, "be careful. Von Höhner is a good man, but he is a just one, too, and he will not hesitate to remove someone who is causing danger and trouble to his ship. For your sake, I hope you are who you say you are."

"And what exactly have I said that I am?" she shot back.

"Someone with a passion for seafaring life worth being wary of," Georg said.

"That is all you shall know, I'm afraid."

"Then _I'm_ afraid I'll have to take you to a highly disreputable brothel—of which there are plenty here!—and tie and gag you to a chair in a private room, left there until some curious whore who thinks she can earn a bit extra on the side finds you there and discovers that beneath your terrible costume is a wonderful bargaining tool for and her madam. This is an ideal situation because you would likely be left alone all night, and by the time you are found, why… the SMS _Habsburg_ will be very far away."

"You wouldn't dare," she breathed.

"Oh, but I would. You would be looked after in a manner of speaking, and your skills put to considerable good use," he snarled back.

"You are swine," Lara said furiously. "I thought you were different! Even knowing that I had my own motives, you thought of me, gave _me_ pleasure, treated me like a lover and not an object for your own amusement!"

 _So that's why she was so quiet this morning_. "You were wrong, then," Georg said. "See, you may have fooled me last night, but it is very clear now: you forgot the one rule afforded to those who partake freely in sex. Always look out for yourself. Always. By assuring your pleasure, mine multiplies tremendously. Perhaps you have yet to see that, or have no concept of it, but it is how I partake."

"The irony is truly smarting," Lara growled, clearly wounded. "Who would have imagined it, a thoughtful, giving rake."

"The irony here is that you mean to insult me, perhaps undermine me—" he gestured down the hallway from whence he had just come, von Höhner stowed away in his office—"but it is all truly a fine compliment, and now I think I see that there is nothing to fear here. You are all bluster and bluff, no substance. This has unraveled satisfyingly fast, don't you think?"

Giving him a look of deep, long loathing, Lara opened and closed her mouth several times, lost for words. And then, finally, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the staircases that would lead her further below deck.

Watching her go, Georg shook his head. He had no doubt that she had designs on him and von Höhner both, but it was with a clear conscience that he laughed at this thought. She had another thing coming to her if she thought any future interactions would go her way. She had bested him once, but that was all it would come to, and as for the ship captain… Georg had an inkling for a while now that the man was harboring affection for some woman back home. There had been a stretch of time when he first came to train with the older man that they'd been docked in Pula to have repairs made on the warship, and after that, he often spoke of a life beyond the war and his travels frequently, even longingly. It had been unusual, but Georg merely took it all in stride and pushed it to the back of his mind.

Running his hands through his hair, Georg sighed and decided to go find Max Detweiler so that the two could go through the repairs inventory and inspect the hull of the ship to be sure it was fit for voyage. If all was well, the crew would all be rounded up to leave harbor the next morning at sunrise.

* * *

"Do you think she means any ill by this charade?"

Georg looked up at Max over his hand of cards, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not trying to distract you," Max assured, "I have far better tools for that."

"Mmm," Georg grunted, returning his attention to his hand. "Right."

"I still think you shouldn't have slept with her," Max said levelly.

"I think she's young and bitter and has a singular idea of a dream that will erase the bitterness," Georg said, ignoring Max's rare attempt at dispensing his opinion that was not in line with the ensign sitting across from him.

"Surely she's the same age as you, maybe older," Max said dubiously.

Georg shook his head. "I don't think she's a day past seventeen."

"Good God," Max uttered. "What makes you say that?"

"Would you believe it, but it was something she said to me this morning while we were quarrelling."

"Oh?"

"She called me 'swine,'" Georg chuckled, "but the funny thing is that profanity in dialects of any language do not find themselves particularly bound to colloquialisms. They're bound to age and emotion."

Lazily tossing in more chips to raise the bet on their current hand, Max said, "You're not _that_ much older than her, you know…"

"That being the only reason I realized her true age. She shags like a woman three times her age with that much more experience."

"A tall order," Max observed.

"You're telling me," Georg snorted, calling Max's bluff and smirking as he saw that his straight flush handily beat Max's pitiful pair. "I've got you. Why bet such a lousy hand?"

"I wanted to see if I could pin the difference between your poker face and your 'losing hand' face," Max chuckled slyly. "I've got what I wanted."

Grumbling to himself, Georg pulled the pile of poker chips to his side of the table and started stacking them neatly while Max shuffled their worn deck and dealt a new hand.

"It's curious that von Höhner let her stay," Max said, watching the ensign level his chips.

"I think he's bored," Georg said. "She's a pain in the ass, but the best entertainment to him in light of the fact that the admirals above him want to retire the SMS _Habsburg_. Make her a harbour defender instead of an active warship. They're keen on the new dreadnoughts… and, well, _I_ think this war will be most effectively fought with those submarines the brass keeps blasting off about."

"Is that something you're interested in?"

"Very," Georg said.

"Do you think the brass would let a _Linienschiffsleutnant_ take on a brand new submarine fleet?"

"Doubtful," Georg frowned, "but there is plenty of time for me to advance rank before the war becomes total. Von Höhner won't go anywhere as long as his warship is seaworthy."

"That's not saying much…" Max said slowly.

"Exactly," Georg grinned, pushing a stack of chips into the center of the table after a brief glance at the hand Max had dealt him. "Call or raise?"

As he waited for Max to consider his implied odds over folding, Georg's mind began to wander, and it was great annoyance that his mind stayed stuck on Lara. Citing boredom on von Höhner's part had only been a half-truth. It was clear from the interaction this morning that the corvette captain had every motive to test him with his lapse of judgment. Not so much in having slept with the girl—he would have done that anyway—but in having placed the wager on the shoulders of another person's veracity. It wasn't even truly about having brought another body on board—a female, at that—just that Georg had the gall and the arrogance to implicate someone higher than himself in less than noble causes.

He frowned, wondering at Lara's obvious attempt to seduce the captain, and then him again not much later. He hoped she was having the time of her life scrubbing her way to raw elbows, knees, and hands, as he would keep her and her company at it through the night in order to see to it that everything was ready to set sail at dawn. It was time to return to war, and the talk amongst the crew had once again become one of strategy and workload rather than drunken brawls and promiscuity.

Perhaps as a reward for good behaviour, he would call her back to his quarters and allow her a proper bath, as a measure of good faith…

"Von Höhner would murder you if he caught the two of you _in flagrante_ on his ship, you know," came Max's voice from somewhere far away. "It is highly inadvisable. Might as well pack your bags now and walk plank."

Georg blinked, perhaps a little too nonchalantly. "Who said anything about continuing the affair?"

"You never do give me enough credit," Max commented. "You really must find a way to get over that arrogance. For one so young, it will haunt you for life. You've got many years to live, yet, ensign."

"If you're not careful, I'll write you up for insubordination," Georg responded, picking up a card.

"Like hell you will," Max said. "You haven't yet. And anyway, I know I'm right. You've got that same hungry look on your face right now as you had last night, and when you booted Cupać off that colt. You are magnetized to her."

"If anything, she's polarizing," Georg muttered. "It's sheer force of will that allows us to join at all."

"I'll remember that when von Höhner is tearing you limb from limb for bad form," Max said darkly. "I'll make it your epitaph."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, but ensign, I would!"

It was a sign, undoubtedly, of their fragile and dichotomous friendship that Georg let the persistent jibe continue without reprimand. Instead, he sighed. And then, he pushed all of his chips into the pot.

"You play a dangerous game, sir," Max mused, imitating the raise with what he had left and showing his hand. "Lucky for me, I've got a royal flush!"

Georg burst out laughing at the hand Max held up for him, then let fall card by card. There was not a blessed move he could make with it, not even a pair.

"Fitting, isn't it?" Max said. "I dealt myself my own worst hand."

"Indeed," Georg echoed, mind beginning to wander once more.

He could not figure out how, or why, but he had a feeling Lara had become his worst hand. She had creeped in under his skin, filling all the cracks and holes with inky blackness, and it was enticing and intoxicating, and for all his desire to assert his authority and disdain over her… he wanted her. Not even for knowing what he could gain from having her as his lover, just for the fact that she was rare, exotic, filled to the brim with a darkness that he actually felt worthy of. Maybe, if they all made it out of this war alive, he would show his relatives what he was capable of and introduce them to true outrage by marrying her, if for no other reason than that he could. Certainly they would never love one another. She hated him, and he despised her.

Perhaps he would make the whole thing ever more morally bankrupt by impregnating her with several bastards before meeting at the altar, and then following with a few more "legitimate" heirs. Yes, that seemed a fine portrait. One child would never do, and two was almost as bad as one. Three or four seemed marginally comfortable, and five or six… havoc. Perfect.

"Maybe there should be a seventh," she whispered low to him, breath tickling his neck. "For luck, you know?"

"Ah, you're superstitious," he grinned, reaching back to caress her silken, black hair and kiss her swollen lips. "Even better."

"The worst," she agreed.

"My family will simply hate that," Georg said approvingly, laying down and pulling her on top of him, crushing her body against his.

"For someone so responsible, you do make some truly bad choices, ensign."

"I'm alright with my choices," Georg said. "I like them just fine. It's the consequences that can smart a bit."


End file.
